


find out games you don't wanna play

by mediocre_kazoo_player



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst but a weird kind of angst, Begging, Dubious Consent, Frottage, Love Suite Continuation, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Ouma gets fucked silly, PWP, Saihara the destroyer, anal sex (implied)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 21:32:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13373469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mediocre_kazoo_player/pseuds/mediocre_kazoo_player
Summary: Boring. Boring! Boooooring.If interesting is what Ouma wants, Saihara will make it his job to become the most unpredictable motherfucker the little bastard has ever laid eyes on.





	find out games you don't wanna play

His name is Kokichi.

 _Ouma-kun_ exists in the negative quadrilaterals formed by the clamor of their idiotic limbs in the mess hall; _Ouma-kun_ is the entity that fades into and out of view behind the autonomously-woven flesh netting of Momota-Yonaga-Yumeno-Chabashira-Gokuhara's ten arms at supper.

Alone with Saihara in the dim library anteroom he is _Kokichi_. _Ko_ , the way he sits with his thin legs left-ankle-to-right-knee, _Kichi_ , his small white incisors just barely grazing the peak of his lower lip.

Saihara has no interest in the text. Although he has ingested every word on the page, he has not read a single sentence. His eyes affix themselves to the telltale twitch of a sly something-something condensing in sinister droplets on the roof of Kokichi's mouth. "Saihara-chan, do I have a book on my face?"

The _Kokichi_ percolates through his throat and oxidizes in the open air: "Ouma-kun."

"Well, wipe it off for me, won't you?" Kokichi deposits two puffs of derisive laughter into his cupped hand. Saihara ruminates on the contents of that small, warm vestibule—air flavored like soft drinks flavored like grape. Flavored like Kokichi's tongue. The word "flavor" becomes meaningless. (Like any word, collapsing into morphemes into phonemes into thoughtless susurrations.)

"There's no book." Practical Saihara, grounded Saihara. Saihara on planet Earth, Kokichi with his agile knees hooked around the firmament like a bonobo, impishly teasing Saihara-who-has-his-shoes-in-the-dirt.

Kokichi with his goading, expectant smile. "Don't be a bore now. You're clearly ogling something on my gorgeous face."

Saihara-who-does-not-want-to-play-games.

"Come on, what is it?"

Saihara-who-can-fit-all-of-his-thoughts-in-one-cardboard-box.

"My beautiful eyes?"

Saihara-who-is-just-another-game-for-me-to-play.

"My mouth? Does my beloved Saihara-chan wish to consummate our relationship while we're all alone?"

Saihara slaps him.

{...}

_I. HYPERLUCID_

Saihara Shuichi is _not_ a bore. He will prove it. He will show him the truth.

This has happened enough times already that Saihara feels the Pavlovian unease settle tightly low in his stomach before he even opens the door to you-know-whose suite of that damned Hotel Kumasutra. What guidelines are there, what punishments does the legalese have in store for your simple oneiro-voyeur? They seem to say his name, to recognize his features, but that is their limit. Any further into their fantasies and Saihara's "I" is no longer "I, myself" but the letter I in Ideal.

Surely this isn't consensual. Can one object to intimacy when he does not realize that the person he lavishes with affections was never their intended recipient, but a lowly impostor? An intoxicated adolescent who sees the man of her dreams projected onto an old lecher—is that not the same situation?

No, no, it's not. These are not physical bodies, not real passions. It has to be as much a physical crime as it is a psychological crime, right? Right?

And who's to say Saihara isn't also intoxicated?

Yes, he's drunk with power. The edges of his dream don't burn and meander as if the world is a painting made up of colorful gases. He is hyperlucid. He is hyperlucid and he may laugh all he wants at their somnambulatory stupidity. How corrupt of him, how awful.

But he pleads that there is one person who can free him from this debased position. The person he is here to see tonight, the person who makes his "I, myself" and his "I, ideal" the two halves of a shivering whole, the person who did not mean to say _you are the object of my desire_ but said it anyway and said it like this:

"That's very like you, Mister Detective."

Kokichi.

Inscrutable, unknowable, infuriating Kokichi will be this sinner's saving grace. Saihara would be laughing at the irony but he's in too deep now; he has decided to play the game.

He takes two steps into the room and Kokichi of the bibliophile's alcove appears before him, a phantasm in white.

"Hmm." Those anemic lips draw themselves to the side, their reddish fringe disappearing as the little specter nips at his own flesh. "Captured me twice in a month, did you? I wonder if it's a stroke of luck or if you're getting really good at this."

Saihara locomotes towards him through a syrupy fog of self-doubt. "I've practiced." His voice catches on the A, praaa-aacticed, a loathsome, weak sound.

"Just for me?"

And he is surprised that this ghost doesn't soak through the coarse fabric of his own shirt when it is pushed but instead follows along with it, the plane of his back connecting to the gaudy red wallpaper with a solid _thud_. Indulgently, he thumbs the ridges of Kokichi's clavicles through his outfit, assuring that the half-existent flesh will at least obey his touch if nothing else.

Though his living form appears barely material, Kokichi himself is as obdurately opaque as ever. He places his pale hands—pale pale hands that Saihara has seen folded in a cross shape over the torsos of casket-slumberers—over Saihara's, and only his fingertips are cold. "I wonder what my beloved detective is going to do to me, now that he has me cornered." His young voice sports a completely even tone. How disappointing, that.

Kokichi, stubborn Kokichi. Release this tired transgressor, won't you? Saihara shakes him by the shoulders. "Wake up," he says, all too excitedly, his face taking on a blotchy florescent fluster. "Wake up! You're dreaming, Ouma-kun, you're dreaming. I'm really me!"

_"You—"_

{...}

"Again? I thought this book was so boooooring last time you decided to slap me around for entertainment instead. Whoo-wee, now that threw me for a loop. I never took you for a sadist."

_Hello, you waking nightmare._

{...}

_II. BABY, STAY (HERE); THE WHISPERS IN THE TREES ARE GE—TTING NEAR_

Here is the intruder again. Foul miscreant in pinstripes. He scans the prone figure on the bedspread.

"Trespassing again? I don't appreciate that, you know." Kokichi rises in a louche, indolent motion, making a great show of the bareness of his milky-white forearms. Or perhaps his motions are simply as nimble as they usually are, and the tincture of an unwelcome lust diffusing itself through the room has affected Saihara's head.

A likely byproduct of his unintended lucidity: Kokichi seems to be dressed only in his sleepwear. It's not much more than a pair of his offensively colored boxers and a threadbare T-shirt that used to be some other color. It might as well be a negligee, Saihara notes, wondering how easily it might rip if he were to lose control of himself at this sight.

"I didn't choose to come here," Saihara says lightly. A lie that used to be some other color, but might as well be a piece of single-ply tissue paper now.

"And neither did I." His heart jumps. There's a tightness in his chest, and, for some reason, his sinuses. He kneads the bridge of his nose.

His chest constricts some more as Kokichi, ever the proponent of preposterous ribaldry, crawls towards him in a way so inconvenient it cannot be anything but flirtatious. "This is ridiculous, isn't it, Saihara-chan?" (Swinging his unblemished legs over the edge of the bed, the reflection of tawdry heart-patterned sheets on limpid skin making his wan thighs blush.) "Tell me you won't believe it."

"I'll be a dead man in the morning if I do," Saihara admits. His breath comes heavy, but quietly. Kokichi is in the act of crossing one leg over the other, left-ankle-right-knee, when Saihara detains one artificially flushed thigh with a supporting hand. The feathery exhalation Kokichi yields him tickles his thumb. Now half-incapacitated, the scantily attired criminal allows Saihara his other leg daintily.

Saihara scoops him up, taking care not to raise him so high up that he might be at risk of dropping his charge, and places the soles of his feet firmly on the carpeted floor.

Kokichi is leaning into him almost immediately, his heels leaving the ground for a brief moment before—

 _"What,"_ he hisses. Saihara's hands still his shoulders, burdening his undersized frame, bringing him back to planet Earth.

"I just want to take it easy tonight," Saihara professes, his own voice drifting intangibly through the soupy air. "Just want to take it easy. We're both boys, remember."

Kokichi, unamused but obliging: "Oh, so no dirty business. Just us boys, tonight."

"Yeah," Saihara says, not a word, but a cloud of air that happens to rasp out of his lungs.

Hyperlucid, he wills it, and it comes—not entirely what he'd imagined, but it works fine. It works more than fine. The accompaniment comes spiraling in first, little electronic trills undulating crisp to fuzzy in their ears. Then an airy female vocal, then a beat.

"Perfect timing," Kokichi mutters, and the shapes of his words travel whole and fleshy into Saihara's chest: the rich rotundity of the _er_ , the clip of the _ect_ , the smooth tubule of the _i_ , and the bite of the _ing_.

Their fingers lace together in a mockery of ballroom dance tradition, free hands ambling awkwardly for a purchase on each others' backs. The music drowns them, drapes them, vibrations making the places where their skin touches tingle with an unknown electricity.

If Kokichi says anything more, Saihara doesn't hear it. He is wrapped up and eaten alive by the feeling of his dear ghost pressed so close to him, small body burning like a furnace. Solid flesh and blood and bones, yet a ghost. He curses how his burdensome jacket muffles the gentle divots of Kokichi's figure. The woman vocalist makes sounds that are round like globes, that drift through the air cloudlike and unhurried.

They rock together, passing the center of mass back and forth. But not by too much—too much would separate them, and every inch of contact is warm and thrumming right now. Every inch is warm and necessary. Saihara's voyaging hand moors itself on the jutting cliff of Kokichi's hip, then the small of his back, then the cape of his scapula; the latter gifts him with lovely utterances, growing so hot that he threatens to burn the both of them to a crisp.

"Hold me tighter. Tighter."

Their stomachs rub together. There is no air in their lungs. Gravity itself wobbles to the sinusoidal lyrics.

The last of this dream that Saihara can remember afterwards still sears his nerves as he lays breathless in an empty bed. He remembers the beat squeezing in from every side, their bodies melting together like wax dolls in the oppresive Algerian sun, and Kokichi writhing in his arms, quite insane with desire.

Absolutely no dirty business.

{...}

Investigation today. Everything is falling apart. There's enough evidence here and there, but none of it is a pleasant sight. They are one less, then two less.

Ouma-kun is a far cleaner criminal. He leaves nary a trace, save for maybe—and only maybe—the ambiguous half-mast of his eyelids for the split second their gazes meet that morning.

{...}

_III. THE KINDEST LIE EVER TOLD_

His dear ghost, his _nepenthe_ , appears before him, unfortunately in full garb, complete with the checkered annoyance that shrouds those delicate clavicles.

"We're not doing anything today, Saihara-chan."

Saihara tries to bite back a frustrated groan and succeeds. He will be tactful. "Alright. But tell me, what's caused this? I daresay you were _entertained_ by our trial today." As tactful as is befitting of this trickster.

"Oh, I was! It was fantastic. Don't get so full of yourself that you think I want you to hold my hand and finger my spine every time I see you." Words that have no depth to them. Saihara reaches for an explanation only for his hand to slap the asphalt underneath the puddle they create and dirty itself. "Come. Play with me instead."

The game goes like this: Saihara and Kokichi lie down on the bed together and they don't fuck. And they don't fuck. They lie supine on the sheets, not fucking.

"Say," says Kokichi, wearing pants. "If you were a puppet, would you hate it if you saw your strings?"

"Why should I?" Saihara, who is also wearing his pants, replies. "They're a part of me. I don't think I could avoid seeing them anyway."

"Because—" Kokichi rouses and props himself up on his side. His ass sticks out just a little too much and Saihara thinks the Catholic thought _puppet strings, puppet strings, bright red puppet strings_. "—Hm. Wager against me, then, won't you, Saihara-chan? Are we puppets who can't see their strings, yes or no?"

Saihara blinks. "We aren't."

"Then I must say that we are." Kokichi flops onto his back again and makes an imaginary square with his thumbs and index fingers. "Mmm..."

He snaps his fingers. "No, we aren't! What does my beloved Saihara-chan think of that?"

"I suppose I win?"

"Sure. I'm not a sore loser."

"Ever gracious." Saihara can feel the weight of Kokichi's body vicariously by the dip in the mattress but he thinks about puppet strings instead.

"Then what if we are?"

"Then you're right. You win."

"I do?"

"Sure."

Kokichi makes his scariest face, the one where the person behind those features does nothing to them: he is sleeping with his eyes wide open. "But I'm so sad."

Saihara is frowning. "...Ouma-kun, you aren't making any sense."

Kokichi tells him a story about ants.

  

 

> _IV. A STORY ABOUT ANTS_
> 
> There is a long trail of ants coming in through a crack in my wall. I keep a jar of sugar cubes in the cupboard and I'm pretty messy with it, so I guess they found it after the last rainfall when some of them took refuge in my kitchen. The ants keep coming in.
> 
> So I create a device that will get rid of the ants. I take a piece of paper, cut it up, and make ant ferries. Then I put some sugar cubes on the other side of the wall, where they seem to be able to go, also. I ferry as many ants as I can from the crack in the wall to the lone sugar cubes. Soon enough, the long trail of ants from the hole to my cupboard dries up, and the sugar cubes on the other side of the wall are the new gathering place.
> 
> I'm so entertained by this that I make a few more sugar Meccas and start transporting the ants here and there. The ants stream to the sugar cubes in the same patterns I have envisioned, save for a select few, who realize they have been foolish and proceed along the same paths as their siblings the next time around. I watch it for a while.
> 
> And after that while, nothing has changed. The trail keeps going and the foolish ones keep cowing. It's so terribly boring. It's so terribly terribly boring that I begin to stomp on them, squashing those boring pieces of shit beneath my heel. But the ants just keep coming. 

 

"And this happened?"

"Why, no," Kokichi laughs, scandalized. "What, toy with ants in my spare time? Who do you think I am? I've got ten thousand lovely disciples to torture."

"Ten thousand lovely, talented disciples who have evaded detection for the entire lifespan of your organization."

"Naturally. I'm a lovely, talented leader." The way his _nishishi_ laugh comes out this time sounds as if he remembers that he needs to do it occasionally and hasn't in a while.

"Lovely," Saihara repeats, squeezing Kokichi's thigh. Kokichi shivers.

 _"Predictability,"_ he hisses suddenly, a fever illuminating his pallid countenance. "I hate predictability the most! Traveling forwards into a future that's already happened and bringing back the news—what a load of shit!"

"Ouma Kokichi," Saihara says softly. "What if I told you that you were completely, truly, and utterly unpredictable?"

"Saihara Shuichi." Although they do not see the same horizon, although Kokichi's heart twists slightly in pain at Saihara's hand finding a comfortable home between his legs, he allows it. "If we really are puppets on strings being ferried off to sugar cubes, then I'd say that that's the kindest lie ever told."

{...}

Saihara stares at an unassuming mug of coffee, thinking about ants.

He drinks it black.

{...}

_V. CONSUMMATION_

White cotton crew socks.

Kokichi has kicked his shoes off and they lie there lopsided, giving the impression that an invisible man is dangling through the floor by his ankles. He hoists himself onto the bed quickly, sitting there with a rakish grin on his face. That pellucid excuse for a shirt is dangling off of his narrow shoulders again.

Saihara's in an undershirt and boxers, hair mussed beyond recognition. He eyes the translucent skin adorning Kokichi's collarbones jealously, a canine tooth and its friends worrying his bottom lip in place of the other boy's flushed chest.

"Saihara-chan has been working out a lot lately, hasn't he?" Saihara's only answer is an affirmative grunt. Doesn't even bother brushing his bangs out of his eyes and slams a knee onto the foot of the bed. Kokichi scrambles backwards, but Saihara can already feel the heat coming off of his soft, welcoming body. "His muscles must be tense." Tense muscles or not, Saihara has captured his favorite specter by a slender calf and plants a kiss on the corresponding shin. He climbs up the leg, kissing Kokichi's knee next, then—

"Whoa, hey, hey!" The owner of the leg wrests control, and for a fatal moment rolls over to let the garish horizontal stripes of his underwear insinuate the two round halves of his buttocks. Whatever flood dam dictates Saihara's usual courteousness is long gone. He pins Kokichi's knees to the mattress with a surprising amount of pressure, swiping his thumbs along the tender insides of those thighs. "Ah—" Kokichi's eyes roll up, up, up, heavenwards briefly and his arms almost buckle.

"Sai—ahhhh, Saihara, HEY!" Saihara lets go.

"Am I going too fast for you," he says, without a question mark.

"God, _yes._ " Kokichi folds himself up, nursing the undersides of his knees with his pale, smooth hands. The drapery of Gehenna has slid off of one of his shoulders, its mottled transparencies showing off even more of the firm skin underneath. Every inch of him looks hot and aching and desirable. "You're supposed to," he gasps for breath, "enjoy it, not get it over with. Sheesh. I'm feeling underappreciated over here, Saihara-chan."

"Sorry, Ouma-kun." Despite his sympathetic smile, Saihara still appears to be in no mood for their typical persiflage. "...Er, what do you want me to do?"

"Sit," Kokichi dictates, patting a spot on the bed. Saihara sits.

Instantly, he feels Kokichi's small, warm palms massaging his back. "Tell me about your day."

"Well, I..." He begins to feel soothed, some lingering soreness that he didn't consciously acknowledge fleeing into the great beyond. But before he can produce a substantial answer, that devil Kokichi presses the delta of his forehead and brows to the nape of Saihara's neck, his soft breathing saturating the fabric of the undershirt with warmth.

"This isn't going to work," Saihara blurts. Kokichi, warm little ghost, pocket of sin, has the effrontery to look startled. "I can't...not touch you."

"...In that case, I'm certainly not opposed to a detour." Catlike, Kokichi repositions. He displays himself recumbent, bare legs stretched out teasingly, one arm tucked behind his back like the stand to a picture frame. "Surprise me, Shuichi."

Saihara is barely collected enough to reconnoiter the sampler before him. Where, where should he start? His normally pallid lips, tinged pink and bitten? The warm valley below which his sternum resides? Or, perhaps, down there...? Kokichi is rubbing one socked foot up against the other in a feeble attempt to disguise how he wants to use his thighs. Every time Saihara's feverishly bright gaze rakes over him, the squirming gets worse. There's an awful tightening at the back of his throat, something threatening to burst through at the expense of his dignity.

Enough is enough. Saihara coaxes a diminutive and pliant creature into his waiting lap. This creature, perhaps proud of its insolence, is quick to meld its back to Saihara's chest, inhabiting the concave area his body forms.

Saihara makes frontal contact with a flat hand, five fingers splayed, a sea star translating its shuffling limbs across the gentle ocean floor. He pauses at the suggestion of a navel, just a faint dip in a breathing dell of polyester-rayon.

When he lifts the edge of the shirt, delicately, a thumb-and-index-finger affair, Kokichi looks at him as a shy maiden would from behind her disappearing veil. How much of that bashful regard is genuine, Saihara will never know, but the color of his cheeks cannot be falsified. Saihara slides his adventuring hand over a bare stomach, up the torso, down again. Up the torso, down again. Counts the ribs that pass under his thumb (is it healthy that he can feel them, pressing insistently outwards behind their soft covers?) with a one, two, three, four...

And a four, three, two, one...

He hypothesizes ventral vulnerability. With every pass of his hand, Kokichi's back arches _tight, tighter_ like a bowstring. If his lithe body is stretched so taut and needy already, Saihara can only wonder how beautiful the release will be.

The crown of Saihara's middle finger dips ever-so-slightly below the waistband. Kokichi quivers and seizes, his entire existence now mercifully volant. Calefacient specter! Saihara envisions the superposed twins:

He falls genuflect before the megalomaniac Ouma, naked knees interred among the soft loam. Ouma regards him with graceful hauteur, deigning to offer him the knuckles of one ashen hand to kiss over and over. He does this. But Ouma is an irreverent prince and soon falls into the silt alongside him, letting the dirt (the filth) encircle his waist lovingly.

Or:

Sunlight parades through a rose-hued curtain, burnishing a modest room with the rays of late afternoon. He runs his fingernail over the corrugation of Koko's pristine stockings. Koko shifts in his lap, not satiated; he rubs Koko's pale belly until the boy grows florid and restless, panting with sexual exertion.

Kokichi, not two but one, turns to face Saihara. He grasps greedy handfuls of starched undershirt and grinds their sensitive chests together like they did under the spell of round, spiraling noises. Saihara can feel it in sharp relief now: the outline of something obscenely engorged. He's sure Kokichi can feel his, too. The indent of that subpelvic animus, the reciprocity of hyperlucid desire, emboldens Saihara-who-tried-to-hide-it-all-behind-the-bill-of-his-hat.

Their first kiss cremates them where they stand.

The Algerian sun roasts them to cinders. Their free-floating bodies, constructed to the tune of soot and steam, drift through the boundless cradle of a negligent Mother Nature. A sloppy procession of phonemes, their empty shapes alternating sharp and spatulate, falls from Kokichi's lips. Saihara catches them with his tongue and shoves them back into the cavity from which they emerged, causing Kokichi to fill their joined mouths with the oblate spheroid of a lubricious moan.

They materialize once more in the imaginary love hotel, the debris of their apocalyptic union still drifting. Saihara is starving and monophagous. He imbibes the thin film of sweat shining on Kokichi's slender neck, consumes the way the fibrous tendons shift under his lips, swallows whole three entire heartbeats that offer themselves through the vacuum of their synthesis.

Kokichi makes the shapes of words that almost mean things: "Shu—Shuichi, you—I never expected—" And his laughter does not mean anything in the shapes of words but it is sweet and bursting and Saihara devours it.

 _Show me your physical truth_ , Saihara doesn't say. His furious hands grip the ecdysiast's Sunday robes and tear an unsightly gash through the center of its spider-web.

Kokichi _squeals_ with pleasure. Saihara buries his face in the white dell and continues to consume, Kokichi delirious underneath him.

A river's worth of burnt vibrations clatters through the air. In dull, incomplete, stupidly discrete human language: _"Oh god, oh god, it's too—I can't—AH—Shuichi! Shuichi, stupid! Fuck me, just fuck me, fuck me fuck me fuck me—"_

—And they are tearing it all off and tearing it all apart, baring the blood-flushed truth in front of each other—

—And Saihara is forcefully voracious, all-consuming and all-revealing, bearing down and cannibalizing and possessing his dear ghost—

—And Kokichi can't think, can't think, can't think, sobs desperately, can't think as he is torn apart and erased, his body was not made to contain this—

They lie side by side, shattered into a million happy pieces.

{...}

 _Saihara-chan_ is he who packages the disreputable and unsavory into unlabeled cardboard boxes, he who measures his few words with standardized teaspoons, he who blushes politely at any deviation from those standardized teaspoon sentences. _Saihara-chan_ is that which appears always behind a gauzy screen, never revealing its bare face for fear of judgment.

Yet within _Saihara-chan_ exists an entity who will press its cheek up against the film, claw its way through, and throw a careful Rube Goldberg of sugar cubes and paper ferries into disgusting disarray.

His name is Shuichi.


End file.
